The Haunted Traveler May 2017 Edition

mound of dirt far over my shoulder. I was only three
feet deep, when the groundskeeper showed shouting.
“Having a hope in God, which these men cherish
themselves, that there shall certainly be a resurrection
of both the righteous and the wicked! Your son
will rise again, but this is not the way! There is no true
power in that defiled land, only the power bestowed
by superstition!”
I turned to him, he was crying, his hands held together
as if he would pray.
“Now if Christ is preached, that He has been raised
from the dead, how do some among you say that there
is no resurrection of the dead?” I asked, “Corinthians
15:12.”
The frail old man tried to mutter a response, surely
another quote from his damned book, but could not as
I had already brought the shovel across his face, and
knocked him into a nearby tree. He then fell to the
floor, and struggled to comprehend my actions. With
dirt and mud caked around his mouth, he looked up at
me and whimpered. Blood had begun to ooze from various
orifices, as well as, from a gash across his right eye.
I struck him again. Harder this time, but not too hard. I
would need him. I wondered how many before me had
tried to raise their dead loved ones, only to be stopped
amid their mission by this decrepit old bastard?
With a newfound calming silence, I returned to
the desecration of my son’s burial place. Tears no longer
streamed down my face, as I contemplated what
he may look like down there after a week of rotting
in the soil. Before now, whenever I thought of it, the
hollowed image of his face it was so haunting. I won-
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